


Never Go Back

by irisbleufic



Series: Delicate, Dangerous, Obsessed [30]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Humor, Arkham Asylum, Canon Autistic Character, Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Relationship, Catharsis, Childhood Memories, Complicated Relationships, Dinner, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Shenanigans, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Intoxication, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Murder Husbands, POV Oswald Cobblepot, Psychopaths In Love, Religion, Restaurants, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 00:38:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12377379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “You,” said Oswald, helping himself to another oyster, washing it down with wine, “are a strumpet.”Edward considered Oswald's choice of wording for a moment, as if it puzzled him, and then smirked.“I'll take that over the alternative,” he concluded, shrugging in satisfaction.  He took another oyster.[Very,verystand-alone compared to the rest of the ficlets in this universe, but alsoveryrelevant to a handful of themes in WYFIR and in the ficlet directly preceding this one.  This starts out as heavily comedic, and then devolves into some maudlin drunkenness on Oswald's part.  For raven_aorla and linearoundmythoughts, each for different reasons, and always with deepest affection.]





	Never Go Back

The Clermont had become Oswald's preferred haunt not long after he'd first unseated Fish. If the legendary hotel with its signature, five-star ground level dining facility had been on-spec enough for generations of Waynes and other ill-fated blue bloods, then that had settled it. 

Maroni and his retinue had never set foot in the Clermont, owing to the fact that it had been strictly designated as enemy territory for several decades. Oswald's first dining experiences there had been in the company of Falcone and a number of the don's most trusted associates.

That was how Oswald had learned about the concept of wine lockers. He'd been Carmine's keyholder.

Not even Fish had offered them to the most select of her clientèle. As soon as it had been within Oswald's reach, he'd had a word with Clermont management about the dusty, long-untouched locker with its brass name-plate reading _GALAVAN_ next to the one labeled _FALCONE_.

The promise of a thousand dollars a year, twice the going rent on a locker, plus the purchase of _two_ mixed cases of fine vintages, was sufficient to secure it. Oswald had insisted upon watching while a member of wait-staff unscrewed the traitors' brass label and replaced it with a rhodium-plated one engraved with nothing more than Oswald's trademark umbrella.

Edward's first dining experience there had been [that time with the oysters and too much Dom Pérignon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10605213/chapters/23754897).

Right now, standing in the vestibule with its wine-locker-lined walls, Oswald watched as Edward tapped thoughtfully at the locker's iron-screened door. When he wanted something nice, he wanted something _nice_ —not that Oswald kept anything sub-par in there to begin with.

 _The construction teams clear out of the Iceberg tomorrow, Oswald,_ Edward had said earlier, at home, flipping through finished-product photographs of the club from top to bottom. _Let's celebrate._

Edward made a decisive noise and pointed at the forward-right corner of the locker door. “That one.”

“You don't even know what we're ordering yet,” said Oswald, with fond derision. “The California red, sight unseen?” Carmine never approved of New World vintages, and, to Oswald's knowledge, neither did Edward. “I like heavy tannins, but you're probably going to turn up your nose at it.”

“You must've put it in there for a reason,” said Edward, removing the locker's key from his waistcoat pocket, handing it to the hostess they'd kept waiting. “Send the Zahtila '07 Cab Sauv to our table.”

“Right this way,” said the woman, nodding deferentially to Edward as she beckoned. “I'm Jade.”

Oswald took Edward's arm, enjoying the stares they got throughout the low-lit mahogany interior.

“We have three bottles of that, Jade,” he said conversationally. “How about you keep them coming?”

“Whatever you'd like, Mr. Cobblepot,” said the hostess, showing them to their usual secluded booth.

“Can you recommend something off the menu?” asked Edward, already frowning at the leather-backed placard. He tended to get fussy when selections were few and highly curated. “To match the wine?”

Jade smiled at him, like she had to put up with this kind of ordering-backwards nonsense all the time.

“You can still start with the Moon Shoals,” she said helpfully. “The manager knows you like them.”

“Oysters, definitely,” Oswald said, leaving Edward to his dithering over the entrées. “What else?”

“The veal chop with _foie gras_ butter is excellent,” Jade said. “So's the porcini-rubbed ribeye.”

Edward let the menu drop onto the delicate Pillivuyt plate in front of him, tempted by what he'd heard.

“We'll get one of each,” he said. “Ribeye for me, veal for Oswald. We'll just end up sharing anyway.”

“What he said,” Oswald agreed, smiling with relieved self-deprecation as Jade took away their menus.

“I wasn't going to take all night,” Edward said reassuringly. “There's not that much to choose from.”

“You took twenty minutes last time we dined here,” Oswald said dully, catching the sommelier's eye as he approached with their bottle and two glasses in hand. “It was an ordeal.”

“You'd call just about anything I do an ordeal,” replied Edward, skirting the line between playing along and genuinely peevish with Oswald's teasing. He appealed to the sommelier with luminous eyes.

“Laura Zahtila Vineyards,” said Mr. Adeyemi, with whom Oswald had been acquainted for ages, twisting the cork free of the bottle. “Calistoga, Napa Valley. Cabernet Sauvignon, 2007 vintage. _Very_ hard to come by at this point, so you were smart to hoard a few.” He poured a quarter-glass for Oswald to sample, noting with an arched eyebrow that Oswald instantly handed it across the table for Edward to evaluate. “This label operates as Laura Michael Wines now, in case you want me to source something more recent from them.”

Oswald waited while Edward sniffed the glass, swilled it, and took one careful swallow. The flash of his throat, by the single electric sconce bolted to the wall above them, was captivating.

“Liar,” he said to Oswald. “The tannins are mild on this one, unless the mellowing has occurred with age.” He set the glass back in front of Oswald, nodding to Adeyemi, who in turn set the other glass in front of him. “Smoky finish. Cherry, raspberry, and a hint of licorice. That will do nicely.”

“Self-taught, Mr. Nygma?” Adeyemi asked, pouring them each a generous glass. “Or did you train?”

“I read a lot about winemaking in college,” said Edward, dismissively. “It's something of a hobby.”

“Edward's what you might call a Renaissance man,” Oswald told the sommelier. “We'll let you know when we need the next bottle. No need to refill our glasses in the interim, I'm capable.”

Adeyemi nodded to Oswald, eyeing Edward, who'd already taken several swallows. “Please enjoy.”

“You should've waited on the oysters,” said Oswald, matching him gulp for gulp. “You'll get tipsy.”

“ _You'll_ get drunk,” Edward countered, flushed and prickly. “When you ask for the bottles to keep coming, it usually doesn't go any other way. I'll have to curb my intake just to make sure—”

“Cut loose for once, Ed,” Oswald said mildly, dabbing his lips. “That's what having a driver is for.”

“Caroline doesn't appreciate it when you're sick in the limo,” Edward muttered. “Rare, thankfully.”

“Excuse you, but I'm _not_ the one who most recently needed cleaning up after,” Oswald reminded him. He lowered his voice, leaning forward. “Not on account of alcohol, either.”

Edward rolled his eyes and took another drink, put-upon. “I sure as hell didn't hear you complaining.”

Oswald beckoned Jade as she approached with the oysters, beaming at Edward. “Well, I was busy.”

Edward went three shades of rosy while Jade nattered on about the freshness of that day's catch.

“You're easy,” Oswald taunted once she was gone, squeezing a slice of lemon over the nearest oyster. He tipped the shell to his lips, watching Edward flush more deeply. “ _So_ easy.”

“It was never _that_ much of a problem before I met you,” Edward snapped, bypassing the lemon, slurping down two oysters in quick succession. “I used to have decorum, Oswald.”

“You,” said Oswald, helping himself to another oyster, washing it down with wine, “are a strumpet.”

Edward considered Oswald's choice of wording for a moment, as if it puzzled him, and then smirked.

“I'll take that over the alternative,” he concluded, shrugging in satisfaction. He took another oyster.

Oswald reached for the bottle of Cabernet. He poured half of the rest into his glass, and then up-ended the remainder into Edward's. He took the last oyster, keenly aware of Edward's covetous scrutiny.

“Makes me wonder what you'd do,” he ventured primly, licking the shell clean, “if I called you a slut.”

“Not in _public_ ,” Edward hissed, glancing around their mostly-empty section of the dining room.

Oswald dropped the shell back on the tray, polishing off the entirety of his glass as a smug victory lap.

“Besides, [you shot somebody who called me that](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10605213/chapters/23596245),” Edward challenged, finishing his glass in three ungainly swallows, and that was it for the bottle. “At least stick to the more tasteful nomenclature.”

“Strumpet's not as classy as you think it is,” Oswald said. “My mother put it on par with hussy.”

“Fine,” Edward sneered, shamelessly licking the wine off his lower lip, and Oswald's breath caught in his throat at the display of absolute brazenness that he had incited. “If _loose_ is what you want, believe me, I can cut it.”

“I honestly can't wait,” Oswald told him, tapping Edward's ankle with the toe of his shoe. “Later—”

“Nope,” said Edward, flagging Adeyemi as he passed en route to another table. “Next bottle, please!”

“Coming right out, Mr. Nygma,” vowed the sommelier, unfazed at Edward's _lack_ of decorum.

“Joking's fine,” Oswald said, taking Edward's hand while Jade took the tray, “but don't cause a scene.”

Edward pressed the napkin to his mouth, glowering at Oswald. “Nobody causes a scene like you do.”

“Edward,” Oswald sighed, caressing the back of his hand. “ _Later_. Whatever your heart desires.”

Edward nodded, seemingly pacified. He watched Adeyemi return with their next bottle already open.

“Fill them to the brim,” he told the sommelier as Oswald released his hand. “The food's almost here.”

“You might want to take it easy,” Adeyemi said, glancing at Oswald. “Save room for the main course.”

“We'll take it home if he fills up on this,” sighed Oswald, gesturing at their glasses. “Waste not.”

“Want not,” Edward muttered compulsively into his wine once the sommelier had departed again.

Oswald was all too glad that Jade came back with their dinners in hand about thirty seconds later. 

Edward had already reached the stage of alcohol-on-an-empty-stomach that wasn't ideal for him, at least judging by previous occurrences.

Oswald efficiently cut up portions of the meat on both plates, sticking some of the ribeye on Edward's fork before handing it to him.

“I'm not going to feed you,” he warned, watching Edward take a few bites of each selection on his own.

“Not necessary this time,” Edward said, decisively claiming the ribeye, sliding the veal toward Oswald.

“I thought we might discuss the auction,” said Oswald, changing the subject. “You're enthusiastic about the artifacts we have on offer, and I would like you to set the starting bids.”

“It'll take me half an hour,” said Edward, sounding bored at the prospect. “We're celebrating, remember? I'll do it at home once you've passed out from...exhaustion, amongst other things.”

Oswald felt his cheeks heat, unaccustomed to Edward so easily, facetiously gaining the upper hand.

“Your tipsy is equivalent to _my_ severely intoxicated, so think twice about that statement.”

Edward shrugged, downed the three-quarters-glass he had left, and helped himself to a full refill.

“You're unbelievable,” said Oswald, testily, taking another bite of veal before finishing and refilling his glass. “Two bottles, _gone_ ,” he continued, taking a swallow as his sense of their surroundings finally grew hazy at the edges. “We only have one more. Of _this_ wine, anyway.”

“Oh, I can't wait,” echoed Edward, viciously cutting the remainder of his ribeye into a perfect grid.

While they enjoyed their meal in silence for a while, Adeyemi whisked away the empty bottle and brought them the remaining one. He uncorked it slowly, noting Edward's untouched spinach.

“That's one of the best sides we have,” he chided good-naturedly. “Last time, you finished that first.”

“The wine and oysters were too much for him,” said Oswald, shrugging, holding out his hand for the open bottle. Once Adeyemi surrendered it with a questioning look, Oswald dipped his free hand inside his jacket and produced a folded stash of twenties. “You and Jade have been gems tonight.”

“And a very pleasant weekend to you, too, Mr. Cobblepot,” replied the sommelier, and left them to it.

“How do you feel about your birthday being a week from today,” Oswald said, feeling warm enough to take off his jacket, but refusing to act on the impulse. He let his ankle brush against Edward's instead. “And that I plan to announce, tomorrow, that the club's opening on it?”

“For the superstitious, that's an incredibly unwise move,” Edward observed. “You're superstitious.”

Oswald shoved his memory of the previous week's storms, and the staff's skittishness, out of his mind.

“Your birthday overrides any other connotations the day might hold,” said Oswald, unsteadily pouring them each another full glass. “Half a bottle to go. I must admit, you've kept pace admirably.”

“I'm not the one always lagging,” Edward reminded him, attempting to sound spiteful, but his tone was giddy with Oswald's flattery. He drank down the glass and held out his glass. “More.”

Oswald just blinked at him, realizing that he'd made a terrible mistake in letting them wax competitive. He regarded the small quantity remaining in the bottle, which he still held, and made a rash decision.

“I'll spare you the embarrassment,” he said, chugging the rest as Edward gasped audibly in protest.

“It's not my fault you're going to be a wreck,” Edward tutted, turning his attention on his spinach.

“You'll thank me,” Oswald said, glad he had one last morsel of veal and a dish of carrots to finish.

Once they were done eating, Edward was red-faced and loose-limbed, but otherwise surprisingly in command of his faculties.

Oswald had, against Edward's admonitions to the contrary, finished with a demitasse of cognac-spiked coffee. They struggled into their coats and staggered out the back. Thank goodness the management let Oswald settle their tab monthly.

Edward sneaked his phone out of his pocket, frowning at Caroline's response to the text he'd sent her.

“She can't easily pull down here,” he said, gesturing toward the construction paraphernalia that currently blocked off the side-street they were standing in. “We'll have to head to the front.”

“Whatever,” Oswald mumbled, hanging onto Edward's arm as he led them in the right direction. 

Oswald let his eyes track over the clear, star-littered nighttime clouds, but what caught and held him was the imposing, imitation-Gothic façade immediately to their right. He stopped, dragging Edward to a halt, filling his lungs before utter _dread_ could creep into his heart.

“My mother's church,” he blurted, startled at his own bitterness. “There's a piece of trivia for you.”

Edward blinked up at the greystone turrets and empty flagpole, peering back at Oswald in concern.

“You never mentioned which denomination,” Edward said slowly. “This one's—” he scrunched up his nose, as if trying to remember Gotham's geography, or maybe to read the inscription “—Lutheran.”

“In Germany and Hungary, that's mostly what you get,” Oswald sniffed. “She made me go almost every week until I hit high school,” he said, finding that the admission stung. “I was convinced...”

Edward peered at him in alarm even as Oswald's eyes, unbelievably, filled with reproachful tears.

“You were convinced of what?” he prompted, releasing Oswald's arm, taking him by the shoulders.

Oswald managed an acerbic laugh, gesturing uselessly at the church door. “That I was going to Hell.”

Something so complex passed over Edward's features just then that Oswald didn't dare ask what it was.

“Listen,” said Edward, pleadingly, tipping Oswald's chin up with his gloved fingers. “You are _not_.” 

“Did your family believe in Hell, Ed?” Oswald asked wretchedly. “Because I know my mother did.”

Edward forced his eyes shut and muttered something incomprehensible. “ _No_ ,” he spat.

“Okay,” Oswald said, unable to swallow the sob that welled up in him. “Edward, if I—if _we_ —”

Edward crushed Oswald to his chest, which was exactly what Oswald needed under the circumstances.

“How about,” Edward said, fishing his handkerchief out of his coat, applying it to Oswald's nose as they drew apart, “you get cleaned up, and...” He waited until Oswald had blown his nose a few times and gotten a handle on himself, and then wrapped an arm around Oswald's waist, hustling him onward. “You can cry in the car. I'll tell Caroline to close the divider. No questions asked.”

“Thank you,” Oswald mumbled into Edward's handkerchief, which was _his_ old one anyway, now that he thought about it. Remembering the drive home from Arkham made him sob harder.

“No offense, but I dislike it when you're maudlin,” Edward said as gently as he could. “I can't help.”

“You _do_ ,” Oswald insisted tearfully, tugging his collar up while Edward navigated them into the glow of the Clermont's awning and Caroline, waiting there, opened the limo for them.

“Oh boy,” Caroline sighed, holding the door while Edward helped Oswald inside. “Rough night?”

“Not exactly,” Edward said, his tone apologetic as he climbed into the back of the car after Oswald. “We're not in the mood for light conversation, though, so can you keep the divider shut?”

“Will do, Mr. N,” said Caroline, businesslike, and shut the door on them before taking her seat up front.

Oswald broke down again as soon as they were on the road, cane abandoned on the floor, nearly curled in a ball against Edward's chest. He clung to Edward's lapels while Edward rubbed his back.

“There's no such thing as Hell,” Edward said soothingly. “There likely isn't. By the statistics alone.”

“I had no idea you were a Philosophy minor,” Oswald choked. “The part about statistics, however—”

“I don't know what I believe in anymore,” Edward murmured. “Given everything we've been through, I'm less and less...” His breath hitched, as if he intended to say something before deciding against it.

“If Hell exists, we'll end up there together,” said Oswald, regaining a measure of composure. “So.”

Edward hummed curtly, tugging out Oswald's untouched handkerchief, using it to dry Oswald's eyes.

“Fair, but not for the reasons for which your younger self always assumed you were damned,” he said.

Oswald shook his head, trying to make sense of the odd statement. “Do you mean it was— _oh_.”

“You thought you were going to Hell for being attracted to men,” Edward guessed, and he was correct.

“I mean, I know that's silly _now_ ,” Oswald replied, finding that he could recognize the absurdity.

“Right,” said Edward, with a hint of the cheerful black humor that Oswald adored in him. “Therefore, _if_ Hell exists, and that's a very _significant_ if, we're going for...all the rest of it.”

As Edward kissed him, Oswald drew a shuddering breath, finding clarity in the midst of his inebriation. 

“Killing to keep you safe couldn't possibly be a sin,” he said, trailing his thumb down Edward's chin.

Edward grinned at him, patting Oswald's cheek. “That's the spirit,” he insisted. “I don't believe in it.”

“You give better advice when you're drunk than when you're sober,” Oswald replied, hugging him tight.

“Don't dwell on what I'm capable of in altered states,” Edward sighed, holding him until they got home.

Once Caroline had shooed them inside and left for the night, Oswald sat down at the foot of the stairs and saw to his shoes.

Meanwhile, Edward tried to explain their condition to an unimpressed Olga.

“I am leaving,” she announced after several minutes' worth of Edward's babbling. “I will send Sveta to stay for the night in servants' quarters. She will be here to make hangover breakfast.”

“Thank you, Olga,” Edward said, rushing to Oswald's side once she'd slammed the door. “Oswald...”

“I'm fine,” Oswald mumbled, shoeless now, catching Edward's face in his hands. “Ed, help me up?”

“I don't think your intimations of earlier, however enticing,” he said, tripping over his tongue as they made even less graceful progress up the stairs, “are necessarily a good idea.”

“Maybe not,” Oswald agreed reluctantly, but it didn't stop him from pushing Edward up against the bedroom door as soon as it was closed behind them. “I'm going to the bathroom,” he announced unsteadily, “and then you had better do that, too, because we drank—”

“I can wait,” Edward said, frozen on the spot with palms splayed against the ancient oak behind him.

About five minutes later, Oswald stumbled back into the bedroom mostly naked and, smugly satisfied, watched Edward try to peel his eyes away as he went to take his turn with the toilet. He came back wearing even less than Oswald, jittery in nothing but boxers and glasses. 

Oswald, feeling wobbly where he sat on the edge of the turned-down bed, shed his shirt for Edward.

“I don't think I can perform to the usual standard,” he said, forming each word with dizzy, contrite deliberation, “but I'm sorry for what I called you, and _where_. You couldn't prove me wrong.”

“If you think I want to prove you _wrong_ ,” said Edward, stopping within easy reach of Oswald while he clumsily shed his boxers, “then you've got another thing coming. Scoot.”

Oswald kept hold of Edward's hips so that he wouldn't topple over, as endearingly confident as he was.

“Why don't you just get in bed,” he suggested, removing one hand from Edward, patting the mattress.

Flopping onto his back, Oswald decided, was no hardship, because it meant Edward wouldn't have to expend any effort getting him there. That turned out to be a drunken miscalculation, because Edward still had to shove and roll Oswald around until they weren't sideways anymore.

“I don’t care that you can’t right now,” Edward slurred, rubbing himself against Oswald’s belly with lazy abandon. “I just want to feel you. I don’t...know if I can, either.” He gasped appreciatively, his uncoordinated grasp shifting from Oswald’s hip to the back of his thigh.

“You’re a damn sight closer,” said Oswald, with a hiccupping sigh. As emotionally wrung-out as he was, the real catharsis lay in Edward brushing his lips over the tear tracks on Oswald’s cheeks and pausing every once in a while to reassure Oswald with a kiss.

Oswald pinched Edward’s backside and squirmed beneath him, shoving his tongue in Edward’s mouth. If they were going to make out while they were completely hammered, then he might as well get around to experiencing every mistake he _didn't_ get to make as a teenager.

“I lied,” Edward whispered catching Oswald’s lower lip between his teeth, scarcely moving as his breath hitched. “You’ll get me off like this.”

“I’m not doing much of the work,” Oswald mumbled, clinging to him. Few things were kinder to Oswald’s ego than Edward’s lack of self-control when they were naked and pressed this close.

“You don’t have to,” Edward murmured, half-lidded and trembling with anticipation. “You’re so warm,” he went on, hitching Oswald’s good leg around his hip, massaging the calf. “So sexy.”

Oswald couldn’t have said why, but the earnestness of Edward’s drunken attempt at dirty-talk bypassed Oswald’s sarcasm filter and pooled in his gut. He whimpered, jerking up against Edward’s weight.

Edward nuzzled Oswald’s cheek, and then kissed him sweetly. “Feels like you lied, too,” he chastised, giving Oswald’s ass a sharp smack. His breath smelled like wine, distinctly herbal, each word suffused with fondness.

“Shut up,” Oswald whined, squeezing his eyes shut, winding his arms around Edward’s neck. He felt flushed and overheated, his veins still tingling with how much he’d drunk. Adding desire to the mix only exacerbated the sensation.

Contrarily, Edward shifted off him, snuggling against Oswald’s side instead. He rocked his hips, moaning contently at how his erection grazed Oswald’s thigh. He slid his leg across Oswald’s, trapping him, worrying just beneath the head of Oswald’s cock with the pad of his thumb.

“I want you to come first,” he said, in a tone that his alcohol-addled brain assumed was seductive.

Oswald didn’t manage to stifle his laughter in time, sounding a bit unhinged. “Not in this condition.”

“Then I won’t till you do,” Edward said, the brush of his thumb growing lighter, more maddening still.

“That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard,” said Oswald, finding it difficult to regain his breath. He rocked his hips against the slight pressure of Edward’s thigh, finding himself rewarded with a jolt of something sharper, more _grounded_ than the static of wine in his veins. “Ed, _Ed_ —!”

“I need to get you this drunk more often,” Edward said, taking Oswald fully in hand to stroke him through what was, in truth, a pitifully brief orgasm, “if it means you'll follow directions.”

Oswald panted, tugging at Edward's elbow, suddenly desperate to please him. “I'll suck you off.”

“No,” Edward gasped, kissing him with filthy abandon, trapping Oswald's thigh between his own.

“I love,” Oswald said, giving Edward a smack in return, “how easy you are, how _contrary_ —”

“Please, _yes_ ,” Edward breathed raggedly, giving Oswald enough room to tug at him. “And?”

Oswald kissed him with the depth of tenderness he knew that Edward would need to belie his words.

“You may be a strumpet, or a slut, or whatever the going rate is,” he said, “but at least you're mine.”

Whatever tears Edward had been withholding while Oswald had his breakdown followed fast on the heels of an impressively extended climax.

Oswald let him sob into the pillow for a little while. “I'm sorry,” he whispered into Edward's disarrayed hair, smoothing it back into place. “Ed, I am.”

“We're not going to Hell,” Edward said, his adamant statement muffled. “Oswald, I _can't_...”

Oswald rubbed Edward's scalp until he'd gone quiet, dropping feather-light kisses against his neck.

“I won't let that happen,” he said with fierce resolve, already sobering up. “You'll never go back.”


End file.
